andhiswife: (baroo)
[personal profile] andhiswife
It's getting colder. Snuggling beneath a blanket with Iman used to feel like something they could just get away with as summer's heat subsided. Now, it's more or less the default. Not that she's complaining - far from it, and she shifts a bit closer to Iman as if in defiance of that entirely hypothetical accusation - but it does serve as a reminder that winter is well on its way, and Greta's fairly certain her current wardrobe is not going to suffice. It's already dipped below freezing a few times. Before too long, it'll start properly snowing. She'll need a heavier coat, and boots - things she can't just knit for herself.

She also might be toying with the idea of trying jeans.

Thusfar, it's been an internal debate. Part of her is mortified by the thought of wearing something so unladylike, but she's less and less inclined to listen to any part of her that still measures things against the yardstick of her own universe. She won't be going back, so why should she trouble herself over what the villagers would think? Women in Manhattan can wear whatever they like. She could wear whatever she likes. She could start dressing for the century she's in, not the one she came from.

Well. She could, if she had the first clue where to begin.

Greta pauses her current knitting project - a scarf for the Balladeer - then glances sidelong at Iman. "How are you for winter clothes?" she asks, her tone as casual as she can make it.
bibliophale: (prissy as hell | fashionista)
[personal profile] bibliophale
It's been a long time. Right? Hasn't it? It's been a long time.

Passage of days is nothing to Aziraphale. He did without Crowley in a very real, very cosmic sense for a whole entire month, or was it two, he'll be buggered if he's going to be specific about these things - for that whole time, and he was, well, he was miserable, but he made it, right? Only because the Rift in all its bloody capitalized capitalization saw fit to reunite them, but details, details. Here's the point. The point is this. Aziraphale is drunk.

He's been drunk every day for several weeks now. He spends the bookshop's various erratic hours at the back, drinking, while Spike handles the absent business in his champion-like way. Every evening he sobers himself up, returns home to the room Crowley is no longer allowed to enter, and spends a wonderful bunch of hours with Melanie, having tea, cakes, and raw meat, reading books, letting her stroke his wings. That sort of thing. It's lovely and it exists in its own bubble, where no other thoughts are allowed to intrude.

This, though, the rest of it, is awful. He could spend more time with Melanie. It's not like his presence is required at the shop. But he goes there all the same. Sometimes to fawn over the modest collection he's acquired, mostly to wish Crowley would appear. Just slither in like he does. Hissing. Skulking. Lounging.

It's not that Aziraphale misses him, well no, all right, it's exactly that, it's that and a handful of change, he misses Crowley ridiculously, painfully, infuriatingly. What is he to do? Lucifer is still very much a Thing, as the kids are saying, and Aziraphale's not going home to Melanie with freeze burns on his face.

But Crowley is so very dear to him, a truth he evades as often and aggressively as possible, and yet, this itch is still there, this itch to do something impulsive and bloody stupid, something because something is, after weeks of nothing, better than another week of nothing.

This is how, somewhere in there, he winds up inside Crowley's flat with a half-emptied bottle of wine (his fifteenth) in his hand, fixing the demon with an abnormally pleasant smile and thrusting an index finger toward him in a specifically non-accusatory fashion.

"Oh, hullo!" he says as though he has absolutely no idea how he got here. "How's things?"
etherthief: (heart powers | super srs)
[personal profile] etherthief
She tells herself this is fine, she doesn't need to run, and probably shouldn't because who knows what condition she's really in after being in the rift so long, but she's barely out the door before she figures she should stop lying to herself and she breaks into a sprint. She doesn't want to get on a fucking train and she can't run the whole damn way, so she runs until she spots an unoccupied cab and flags it down with breathless gusto.

She feels like she's going to throw up.

Once she's in the back of the cab, once she's blurted out the address she still remembers, she fumbles out her phone and scrolls back through the texts that all came at once. It's too much, all of it. They might as well be in another language. They start off so normal, become so desperate, and then something else. It's awful. She feels like she's watching Greta's heart break.

I wish, Greta had finished one message.

You wish what?

What does she 'finally understand'?

Iman rocks feverishly, turning her phone over and over in her hands. She stares out the window hard enough to break the glass.

And then it pulls up, and she gives the driver an absurd tip and stumbles out.

Greta's there. She can see her just inside the front door. Iman hears herself make a sound she didn't expect, a little whimper. She's there, waiting. Their eyes meet. She runs.
postictal: (the shadows are long)
[personal profile] postictal
This is still a bad idea. That hasn't changed. But just because they have no idea what the hell happened a few nights prior doesn't mean he should be putting his whole life on hold, right? Once it would have. If he'd never come to Manhattan, never ended up in this place with Jay - he doesn't doubt that he'd be doing exactly that. It's still his first instinct.

No matter what he does with his waking moments, the problem in his head isn't going anywhere. The most he can do is pursue something he thinks he'll enjoy pursuing. Which is, at the moment - hopefully learning to actually read music, and learn to play something that wasn't self-taught by ear. The ukulele is an unfamiliar weight at his side as he carries it into the apartment building.

It's only a few minutes before Tim finds the indicated apartment and knocks on the door.
andhiswife: (serious)
[personal profile] andhiswife
It's not that she's been avoiding Iman, exactly. Greta's had good reason to leave her be - several good reasons.

Lilly would be the big one. The child has kept Greta busier than she has been since before ROMAC's fall. She might not be quite as demanding as the twins, at least. She's old enough to entertain herself (though what she tends to find 'entertaining' are the sorts of things that leave large messes behind). It's her limited vocabulary and almost nonexistent manners that have presented the biggest challenge. Granted, they've both been improving, especially since the dog arrived (she even got Lilly to submit to a bath after coaxing an unenthusiastic but cooperative Ruckus into the tub, first), but she still has a long way to go.

All things considered, there might not have been much point in reaching out to Iman before now. Lilly hadn't been ready to meet her, and Greta hadn't been willing to push the girl back to Aziraphale for minding while she visited Iman on her own. They'd needed time to settle in, and for Greta to get a better sense of what she's dealing with, before worrying about anyone else.

Not that she hasn't been worrying, anyway. Their last conversation - if you could even call it that - consisted of Iman objecting to the idea of her taking Lilly in, and Greta brushing her off as if her opinion didn't even matter. Never mind that Iman offered to bring Greta home with her, an offer that doesn't necessarily extend to any children Greta might take in. Never mind that she can't even excuse the whole thing as temporary when Lilly's in the same unfortunate boat as herself. She had no business taking in a child without at least talking with Iman about what it might mean for both of them. Yet, here they are.

What if Iman doesn't like her? What if Lilly doesn't like Iman? What if it doesn't matter? Even the most charming child in the world would be more responsibility than Iman signed on for, and she'd have every right to declare it 'too much,' and… and be done with it all.

She doesn't know what she'll do if that happens.

At least Iman seems to respond well to the only somewhat desperate invitation Greta works up the nerve to send her. This might not be so bad. Still, she impresses upon both Lilly and Ruckus that they're to be on their best behavior (it feels a bit silly, dropping into a crouch and addressing them both, not least of all because Ruckus listens with as much solemn, close attention as Lilly does - if not more). Iman is a dear friend, and they'll hopefully probably be seeing a lot of her, and this is important.

And then she makes tea, because she needs to do something besides anxiously pace while she awaits Iman's arrival. When the knock finally comes, Greta swipes her palms nervously down her skirt and makes a deliberate effort to not hustle too quickly over to the door. Ruckus lets out a quiet cough, more acknowledgment than alarm, and sits down next to Lilly as Greta swings the door open.

"Hello," she says, her smile a little anxious, but warm. It really is good to see Iman again. Her arms twitch in an aborted move to hug her before it occurs to her that Lilly might find it alarming, so she steps back instead, ducking her head sheepishly. "Come in, please."

Door shut, she turns to her charges. "Lilly, this is Iman, the friend I told you about." She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. "Iman, this is Lilly. And Ruckus," she adds, prompting the dog to open her mouth in a broad, relaxed grin.
grabme: (nnnnot sure what to make of this tbh)
[personal profile] grabme
This whole human business is really terribly, terribly complicated. How do they keep track of everything that needs doing all the time? He has keys - multiple! - and a little black square of a phone and an entire apartment he's supposed to be taking care of, only it doesn't seem to require the same kind of constant maintenance as, say, a certain Enrichment Center. Days of cautious experimentation have yielded certain infrequent results: the silver boxy thing in the corner dings cheerily and heats up when its trigger is depressed. Doing it three times successively isn't recommended, he's learned, when the box starts belching black smoke and sets some kind of alarm squealing and he dashes out of the apartment with his arms flung high over his head and nearly crashes slap-bang into a wall. Aside from the occasional hiccup - very occasional, certainly no more than once or twice a day, he's quite sure of that - it's been a very particular time of adjusting to the stumbling inadequacies of his newfound humanship.

His middle groans periodically with something, possibly hunger since food is, well, it's a thing humans need which is a bloody well inefficient means of refueling, and his head aches and he's got to remember to jam the great large-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose every morning, and it is an absolute bloody pain to remember every morning. The Enrichment Center didn't even have mornings.

It's a morning like any other morning when he puts key to lock, except for the part where he steps from apartment to a place that is not the hall just outside the apartment and Wheatley experiences a moment of pure, all-encompassing terror as he thinks, for a moment, that he's right back in the old Enrichment Center with Her shifting the cold matte black cubes of the facility around in Her overcomplicated chess games.

[ooc: old Wheatley's been hit by the Master Key and is not having a good time.]
andhiswife: (profile - uncertain)
[personal profile] andhiswife
The practical, sensible part of her knows this might not be a good idea. It's too sudden, too quick, too much responsibility striking like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky. Greta's still raw and aching, the Witch's blunt exposition and the Balladeer's more gentle but no less horrible refrain replaying themselves in her mind with exhausting regularity. She shouldn't even be alive; what business does she have taking in a child? Especially one who, from the sounds of things, might as well have been raised by wolves?

Well. She doesn't have any business, full stop. That's rather been the problem, these past few days. Waiting to go home had been her chief occupation, and there's no point in that, anymore. If she doesn't find some way to fill the hours, all the loving support her friends can offer won't be enough to keep her from going mad. She needs to do something.

She can do this.

Her apartment was already neat as a pin, and it's been livened up with some art supplies and a few toys. It's not enough for the long term - the child will need far more if Greta's going to care for her indefinitely - but she thought it best not to jar the girl with an overwhelming display. Aziraphale only asked for help, after all; it would be rash of her to act as if it was a given that Lilly would be staying here forever. Maybe she'll only end up watching the child for a few days. Maybe Lilly won't even like it here.

Greta really hopes she does, though. Now that a potential purpose has been dangled in front of her nose, she can't help but grasp at it. And if she's a little too eager, well, that's better than the numbing fog she's been drifting through of late.

How refreshing, to want something she can actually have.

She looks around the apartment, as if to give the furniture an opportunity to object to the impending visitor. Then she picks up her phone and texts Aziraphale one last time.
andhiswife: (don't cry out loud)
[personal profile] andhiswife
Greta wakes when she strikes the floor. She lies there for a few moments, winded and disoriented, hardly able to recognize her own apartment from this angle.

(She doesn't want this to be her apartment. She doesn't want this to be all she has.)

It was all lies. It had to be. She fell, but she didn't--she's alive, and if she hadn't landed in Manhattan she'd--she'd remember. Wouldn't she? Maybe it wasn't even really the Witch, but a figment of her own imagination, some Witch-shaped conglomeration of all her worst fears about what might be happening in her absence. The real Witch would have been able to give her real answers, not a few awful details and a shrug.

(Could those details have really come from her own mind, though? Would she ever have imagined Jack...?)

Greta lurches to her feet and pauses, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She needs answers, real ones, not the words of a Witch in a nightmare. It's not yet dawn, but the ambient light of the city is enough for her to find a shawl by. She wraps it around her shoulders, grabs her keys.

Her phone sits on the bedside table. Iman--she'll probably text her as soon as she wakes. But even the thought of sympathy is almost enough to break her. She needs to know if it's true before she can bear to accept anyone's apologies or concern. Even Iman's. Greta presses her lips together, turns her back on the device, and steps barefoot out into the hallway, squinting against the artificial glow.

A minute later, she's outside the Balladeer's door. She lifts a hand, then hesitates for a moment. It's so early. Can she really ask this of him?

She doesn't care. She has to.

Greta knocks.
lottawork: (brave little toaster geek)
[personal profile] lottawork
He has it.

It had come together unprompted, without the click and slide of a solution slotting easily into place. There is never a click, a common misconception even in the highest echelons of academia - there is never a well-timed stroke of brilliance turned over by some new fragment of insight, simply the give of a problem folding beneath the fierce, continuous, brute force pressure of the uncontained mind. For weeks he has considered it, has become an expert in fields utterly beyond the scope of his specialties or his prolonged interest, and even with the minor distraction of Jackson's spontaneous return to the flesh, he has done little else but attack the set of circumstances without compromise.

The dog is asleep when he exits the building, and he locks his door upon departure, his movements streamlined by the fervent intent of intellectual energy, the strap of his bag taut over his chest as he commits himself to the grueling inadequacies of public transportation.

He knocks immediately upon building entry. He expects Asadi will be waiting for him.
peacefulexplorer: (you were made to meet your maker)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
He sheathes himself in intent and blinding resolve, gathering himself at the peak of all he is. He knows the form and shape of himself intimately, and that of the Rift nearly as much. He has no physical structure here, nothing but the transcendental construction of his being, spun from energy and enlightened matter.

He forms the configuration of his atoms into a point and launches himself toward the great barrier mantled over the city, driving himself into the obstruction with every high-vibrating strand of himself in an ineluctable quantum-entangled internecine of torquing chiral matter and shrieking electromagnetism, resolving into bright streak of light, and then nothing.

Electrostatic discharge bisects the sky in an erratic jolt, feathering into diverging points before realigning into a single incandescent bolt that slams into the ground with the low, juddering impact of two unrelenting forces colliding on a colossal, rising, universal scale.

Bones grind into the approximation of a human skeleton, molecules stitched together to form organs with the churning of heart and veins and brain and lungs, skin wrapped over the assemblage of physiological necessity, all done with the vibrant immediacy of interconversion of energy to matter between seconds.

The transduction of one phase of matter to another.

Energy becomes flesh.

Light becomes bone.

Daniel Jackson returns to earth.
---

He opens his eyes.

It is very dark.

There is a tightness in his chest, and belatedly he realizes it is because he needs to breathe.

He breathes.

He blinks, eyelashes scratching the air that is too crisp and frigid and sharp, prickling the sarcoline membrane of his skin. He opens his hands, pale, spidery blurs printed against the dark matte of cold sky.

He sits up. His sense howl against the sensation, the exertion of muscle, the grating pull and shift of bone, the sensation of grass tickling bare skin nothing short of a unique somatosensory hell.

Hell. That’s a concept that strikes him as vaguely familiar.

Unfortunately, nothing else about this does.

With nothing else to do and with the whole of him aching, as if only now realizing just how incredibly inconvenient and painful the burden of physical existence is, he makes a list of things that he knows.

He is in a field, broad and open and grassy. The trees are distant pinpricks in silhouette. There is the distant rush of objects hurtling laterally through space by way of paved roads. The sky is a canopy of bright-dotted lights, comprised of stars and a glittering, multicolored swathe of metropolitan luminescence. The field is wet, with dew or rain or both. The air is cool. He is breathless, nameless, clothesless.

Nameless?

That’s a bit worrying.

Or maybe he just knows it’s meant to be worrying. Right now, the only emotions he seems to be able to muster are those of budding distress and confusion.

Also, discomfort. He’s shivering, and he has to remind himself to blink and also to breathe, and something about that doesn’t seem quite right because it’s not spectacularly efficient to have to keep reminding himself of those faculties that really should be involuntary, he’s pretty sure, is he sure though, because he’s not entirely certain where all these preconceived notions about his physiology seem to be coming from, and also he would like some clothes.

The thought crystallizes into relief. That’s something he knows. Desire. He wants something. Namely, to be clothed. Kind of right now. Or just soon-ish. That would also work.

Standing is a trial, walking even more so. His body feels fragile, new, possibly newborn if that didn’t make no biological sense whatsoever. He stumbles forward like a poorly-coordinated child, his legs shuddering in protest with each creaking motion.

First, he needs to get out of here.

[ooc: After a month of glow-jellyfish shenanigans and an ill-advised attempt to bullrush the Rift into letting him go, Daniel has descended and is now human again. Rest assured, anyone who finds him WILL find him clothed, as he’ll have recovered some from a dumpster or something by the time he’s wandering the streets of Manhattan. ALSO word of warning - seeing as his brain’s been freshly scrambled, Daniel’s a wee bit amnesiac. Also slightly aphasiatic? He has no idea who he is and he’s not going to be capable of understanding or speaking English until his memories start trickling back.]
singthesong: (More Appropriately Emo Guitar)
[personal profile] singthesong
Yesterday, the Balladeer was feeling a little under the weather. But he figured it was probably nothing and went out on his usual rounds anyway.

This was a mistake.

Today he feels like death. He's fairly certain he doesn't actually have cancer, but his throat hurts and his nose is running and he's retreated to the couch to huddle under a blanket. Is this what being sick is like all the time? It's awful! He's got a vague idea that maybe he ought to take some medicine, but there isn't any in the apartment; it hadn't occurred to him to buy any.

He dozes for a while before it occurs to him to ask the network for assistance. They ought to know, right? It wasn't his goal to get anyone to come over and help out, but...well, he hasn't really felt up to making any food today either.
andhiswife: (welp)
[personal profile] andhiswife
Greta tries to put Rush's maddeningly vague texts from her mind once it becomes clear that he has no intention of giving her more than implicitly dire portents of things to come. It almost works, too. She has some baking-related messes to clean up in the kitchen; that ought to be distraction enough.

But her mind isn't on the work, as demonstrated by the fact that her hands complete it all in record time. Ugh. She surveys her gleaming kitchen with a sigh. Sometimes, this Rift Power is a dratted nuisance. Now what is she supposed to do between now and whenever Iman should arrive? Pace?

Well, she decides as she unties her apron with a few unnecessarily vicious tugs, if that's all she can do, then Rush can bloody well watch her do it. She was having a perfectly pleasant day until he decided to ruin it - as if she doesn't fret over Iman enough already - and she doesn't care if her company isn't convenient. What an insufferable man. She practically throws the apron at its hook - it's more an additional annoyance than a surprise when it lands perfectly - and grabs her phone and her keys before heading out.

At least it's a short walk. She doesn't bother to text him a warning, she just raps sharply on his door.
lottawork: (absolutely not)
[personal profile] lottawork
The dog is in no way growing on him.

It has proved to be admittedly unobjectionable in its patient, unhurried treatment of its surroundings, largely content to dominate sections of Rush's floor with a leisurely sprawl. He may have been presumptuous to assume his work may progress unimpeded as of the moderately alarming moment where, upon his denotation of a particularly relevant equation scrawled in the lower corner of one wall, the dog evidently thought it prudent to rest its head in his lap with little warning aside from the preceding whisper of its paws over hardwood and a low, contented huff from its nose.

The action has subsequently left Rush with an incomplete understanding as to how one would (a) rise without disrupting the ostensibly sleeping creature cradling its head in his lap, (b) purport to care very little for the animal's well-being despite his inexplicable inability to simply stand and dislodge the thing and be done with it, (c) in any way continue to maintain his reputation as a cold-hearted bastard.

Unhelpfully, this entire subsidiary of events has very likely fucked that sequential agenda truly, wholly, devotedly, and completely.

He is not, he thinks vehemently in the general direction of the continuously absent and probably totally indifferent Colonel Young, a completely cold-hearted bastard. This, if nothing else, would prove as much.

"Off," he commands the dog, raising a hand to point in a direction away from himself.

The dog yawns at him, perhaps pointedly. Rush glares at it.

"Off," he repeats.

The dog's eyes droop closed in drowsy recumbence. Rush's hand drops as he regards the recusant animal with disgust.

"You are insufferable," he informs the creature, who continues to doze on, in his lap of all places, utterly indifferent.

Rush sighs.
lottawork: (stare into the distance like i dont care)
[personal profile] lottawork
His fingers skim the length of his laptop, tracing its edges as he watches the text on the monitor, promoting some sort of entry-level job access tutorial, blur into parallel streaks. Irritating as he had found ROMAC on principle, it had at least been a useful inlet into the Rift's center of activity with a conveniently, moderately high salary.

Thus far, he has found Manhattan's job market to be comparatively disappointing.

The laptop snaps shut in an abrupt, frustrated jerk of motion, prefacing the inevitable downward arch of Rush's shoulders as he buries his face in his hands and breathes out, worn and protracted. He is tired, or he is reasonably certain he is tired - the other potential explanations for the excess of mental fatigue seem unlikely, as he is relatively sure he would remember being drunk and he is equally unlikely to be experiencing some dissociative episode apropos of nothing and, clearly, it has been a sufficient amount of time since he has last slept as he cannot remember the time he last slept, which serves as an adequate proof of assumption in his mind.

Rush shuts his eyes and tries to recover some sort of celerity or clarity of thought.

fucking_ebay: (misc | pouring a drink)
[personal profile] fucking_ebay
It's tempting -- maybe surprisingly tempting to anyone who doesn't know Peter as well as he knows himself -- to just burn it all and start over. A penthouse (not to mention an actual fucking return to the stage) should mean matching furniture and built-ins, shiny new fixtures, and all the details and decorations planned and picked down to the silk sheets and the display cases he's sure to start filling with spooky crap and detritus rare supernatural artifacts and top of the line weapons.

Unfortunately, his time in New York has made him unpleasantly practical. The rickety bed, the ratty couch, the TV Gabe brought him (alright, that's at least decent)...it will all have to do, at least to start with. He's not a headliner again yet, and he's starved himself enough months to finally start relearning how to live on a budget. That includes not taking the lazy way out and hiring movers to get his stuff from one place to another literally within a few blocks (he seriously considered it), so this morning he's boxing up the last of the odds and ends that make up his life and stinking up his old apartment with a celebratory cigar for good measure. At least there's not much -- it's a tiny apartment and he never had money, so the problem is going to be less one of bulk and more one of the penthouse probably looking fucking empty even once he's unpacked again.

Bee's due any minute, insistent as she is on helping despite it being unclear to Peter what she's getting out of it. That probably means the cigar is a bit ill-advised (he's fairly sure they're not allowed to smoke indoors at all), but he'd come across it while packing and it seemed stupid to put a lone cigar in one of the boxes. Anyway, it's not his apartment anymore, and not his problem.
peacefulexplorer: (Ascended | Sad | ultimately helpless)
[personal profile] peacefulexplorer
Existence without form or breath or shape is disorienting, the spread of atoms over a plane he doesn't recognize, with the repeated dissolutions and reshapings of an indistinct self. At one point there was pain, and the unspooling of himself into light and purpose, and for a long while there is only amorphous drifting. He hits barriers, dissonant and frequent, where once he should have crossed from one plane to another, one reality to the next, in an effortless slide of energy across the universal boundaries. It is difficult to define emotional state outside of the human context - he only knows that he is not human - but it is a state of affairs that generates confused distress.

Temporal sequencing becomes a problem.

Awareness, too, is difficult to achieve. Gradually he is able to pull together the various components that comprise himself and reshape them into something capable of perception, but doing so strikes him with a revelation disconsolate, and that is that there are no Others here - no Ancients, nothing, simply an empty plane of shifting light and bottomless dark. And he is alone.

He knows he did this, and it was for a reason. But he finds he cannot remember anything, not immediately, and when the memories trickle back with his concentrated effort they are unfiltered and unstructured and unordered until finally he can impose the alien concept of linear time upon the thing, and fully interpret what he is in comparison to what he was.

Daniel Jackson.

The name is the linchpin that generates the outward ripples, spreading from that singular point of origin. It triggers the flood of remembrance, the 'gate, Manhattan, the locked-away knowledge that was once sealed in his head but now coalesces seamlessly into the whole of him now. He cannot delineate his form by shape or size or mass, not any longer, but now he remembers, he remembers what it is he can do and how it is he can do it.

He starts small because he must, drifting as a pair of hydrogen atoms while he glimpses the city on a reduced scale. Then he builds to it, the recollection of his shape. Spectrally manifesting was never truly allowed before, but if there are no Others then he is not bound by their laws. He assembles a body that resembles the one that was human and familiar, and projects it. It takes two tries to succeed, three to sustain it for longer than a meaningless collection of seconds, and no matter what he tries he cannot force his shape to manifest with glasses. Apparently his inner self, or however he chooses to define it, does not need them.

He loses track of how many attempts he makes before he can maintain his form visibly for any significant length of time. But finally, in a ragged burst of energy, the bewildered shape of Daniel Jackson reappears in Manhattan, and there he stays.

[ooc: Daniel Ascended back during the Rift Shitfit of September 4th, and he's only just figured out how to Do Things in his new state of being. Right now he's completely intangible and frequently phasing in and out of visible existence. I've added to his handy-dandy reference post as to what he can and can't do in this state. He can also show up LITERALLY ANYWHERE so if you want in on Ascended funtimes just pick a date and a location, or Daniel can pick one, or whatever.]
etherthief: (i'm doING THINGS)
[personal profile] etherthief
For those who missed it, Iman's magical prosthetic is out of commission and she's havin a rough time. TW for denial, dysphoria, and some internalized ableism.

This is fine.

She starts every day this way. Waking up, looking at the ceiling, remembering through dull ache and a gradual loosening of dreams where she was still whole that her arm is gone. Not quite gone, not literally missing, still hanging there limply because it's easier to fake it and she gets enough stares already. Reminding herself of the subtle changes in her own weight distribution, how she must hold herself, the effort that goes into things like rolling out of bed and showering and dressing. And she says: this is fine.

First order of business is checking her phone. A real one now, now that she can no longer use her arm for this purpose, or for opening doors, or for punching holes through walls if need be, or reshaping glass, or anything. She is normal. She is less than normal.

What time is it even.

Some texts, she doesn't check them now. The clock tells her she has managed to sleep until 2pm. Fucking fantastic.

Okay well by the time she gets showered and caffeinated and presentable, it'll be happy hour.

Who's she gonna drink with. Rush? Sounds amazing, actually, but how long will it take him to get back around to wanting to fix her unfixable fucking arm? Fuck that.

She punches in a text to Greta.
etherthief: (excited | omg | science!!)
[personal profile] etherthief
"All right kids, here's what it is," says Iman cheerfully. She's punchy today. Spent the last couple days helping Greta move into the formerly-ROMAC apartments, now just apartments - under whose maintenance, well, that's still a bit of a jumble but Greta has a home now, a good safe distance from the former Base, and moreover, it's a beautiful day for some science. She flexes her left hand and gestures demonstratively at the park's edge, the river beyond it, and more to the point, the Rift's border. Not that anyone she knows of has tried escaping Manhattan via the East River, but Satan's notes definitely helped her construct a solid map of its perimeter, and now that she's so close she can almost feel the crackle of energy, tingling a little in her fingers. Exciting stuff.

It's dawn, almost no one's out yet, and at least one of her companions doesn't look too pleased with the choice of hour, but he never looks pleased, so it's moot.

"This is the Rift's edge," she says with a mostly mocking long-buried academic air. "Runs all around the waterfront keeping us boxed in. The rumors tell us that its recent, what do we want to call it, tantrum was immediately preceded by two rifties breaching the border, if not physically, then some other way. We don't know how they did it but we know it can be done." She gives Greta a little smile. They know now that the escapees were Andrew Noble, his husband, and their children, the very same Greta had been looking after - and she knows Andrew had been her first friend here. But the escape has left them with something very important: a proverbial jumping-off point.

"What I'm gonna do is feel it out with this baby." She gives them a little wave with her left hand. "This is what I do back home, and this is possibly the first and last time I'll ever be presented with so clearly delineated a membrane. So if I can't breach it, I can at the very least interact with it, study it, get some idea how far it might bend under the right circumstances. And that's what I'm gonna do."

Well, she's excited anyway. Rush knows he's more or less here to spot her in case something goes horribly wrong, an eventuality she's assured him won't happen, she'll be careful, she promises. Greta, she invited for a little clean fun showing off, and because, well, she wants Greta to know if there's hope of getting home. Much as that eventuality pains her to think about.

Anyway. She cracks her knuckles unnecessarily and gives them a big grin.

"Ready?"

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